Diverge
by willowcabins
Summary: Crime Scene AU: Detectives Bering and Lattimer's newest case seems to be an enigma wrapped in a mystery and every new lead they uncover seems to involve a certain ex-cop-turned-journalist.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"And we have a match!" Myka grinned as Claudia flourished towards the computer screen, a woman's face appearing. "Oh she's looking good for it too," Claudia cooed in excitement, printing the accompanying document off for Myka. Myka accepted the document with a smile and looked it over.

"Helena G. Wells, ex-cop turned private investigator and journalist. Training in kempo and an excellent marksman." She hummed, speed reading the rest of the document silently, worrying her lip.

"You don't like her as a suspect?" Claudia asked, surprised. Myka frowned absently, drumming her finger on the slab next to the victim's head, unbothered by the dead body's proximity.

"She's an ex-cop, which means she knows that we have her fingerprints, and she knows what we can do with those," Myka explained, gesturing at the small thumbnail pictures on the bottom corner of Helena's profile. "I mean, she willingly and knowingly submitted her fingerprints and DNA to the city! Thus, she must be either very doubtful of the police force's ability, or somehow otherwise involved with the victim." Claudia pouted.

"Dammit," she sighed. "I was looking forward to a simple case." Myka laughed.

"There is no such thing, Claud. Pete and I will hit this woman up anyway: she might be a useful lead. Can you run a full toxicology? I know we have a COD but I want to know whether that thing I smelt at the crime scene was his perfume or drugs. It smelt oddly like fudge." Claudia mock saluted Myka.

"On it, boss," She grinned, donning her scrubs with morbid glee. Myka stepped out of the morgue and smiled at Pete as he fell into step next to her.

"Hey hey hey! How was the morgue?" He asked, glancing behind them at the swinging double doors in distaste. Myka grined.

"Morgue-y."

"I'm sorry I missed it. Claud give us any good leads?"

"Sort of. Remember that handprint around the victim's neck? Claudia recovered some fingerprints from it, belonging to a certain Helena G Wells." Myka gave her partner the file as they waited for the elevator. Pete opened the file and began reading.

"Helena G. Wells?" He furrowed his brow at the name.

"The journalist?" Myka offered, trying to jog his memory.

"Journalist?" Pete shook his head. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"She won a ton of awards last year because of some article she wrote about the evolution of the grappling hook." Pete shook his head. Myka rolled her eyes. "Doesn't matter. Claudia said she looked good for it."

"This is amazing Mykes! She's our man, right?!" The elevator arrived and the doors opened as light spilt into the dimly lit corridor.

"Wrong."

"But –" Pete protested, following Myka inside.

"We can bet on it if you want, Pete. Ms Wells is going to have an air-tight alibi." Pete rolled his eyes and pressed the button for the ground floor of the precinct with a pout.

"Why do you say that, Myka?" He asked, glancing over the file again, trying to see if he missed something.

"Do you think she's the killer?" Myka asked as they stepped out of the elevator and into the late afternoon sunlight that was streaming into the lobby. Pete frowned.

"I'm not getting a vibe," he admitted, "but on the other hand the evidence is all against her." Myka rolled her eyes. A handprint was far from all the evidence.

"Well, let's go pay her a visit and see what your vibes tell you there." Pete grinned.

"Shotgun!"

"Pete, you're literally the only other person here. Who do you think is going to steal shot gun from you?"

"You never know, Mykes, you never know."

Helena G. Wells, the celebrated and renowned journalist, had a nice, medium sized apartment in the east area of the city. Pete whistled in appreciation as they stepped out of the car and he looked around the neighbourhood.

"Being a journalist pays well these days, I see." He told Myka with a grin. Myka rolled her eyes.

"Ms. Wells comes from old money, Pete. I highly doubt she earned this apartment for herself." Pete laughed.

"Ah well, I don't think I'd be a very good writer anyway."

"You could totally be a food critic!" Myka tried to defend her partner.

"I think that would just entail me sitting in front of a thesaurus looking up synonyms for the word 'delicious' all day."

"Such a selective critic, Pete." Pete just stuck his tongue out at Myka and she bumped his shoulder good naturedly. "I see that in the best way possible," she added. He rolled his eyes.

"Right, which apartment is hers?"

"Number 13." Pete pressed the button compliantly and after a few second the intercom crackled.

"Hello?" Pete blinked at the British accent and mouthed a shocked 'What?' at Myka. Myka ignored him.

"This is the Metropolitan police, Ms Wells. My name is Detective Bering and this is my partner Detective Lattimer. We'd like to ask you some questions." There was a dramatic sigh and the door buzzed. Surprised, Pete opened it quickly. "I'm on the fourth floor," the voice said with annoyed boredom before the line went dead.

"That did not sound like a guilty person," Pete told Myka. Myka bit her lip.

"She didn't sound innocent either," she offered. Pete glanced at her in surprise.

"Are you second guessing your judgement, Detective Bering?" He asked, clutching his chest in mock horror. "I never thought I would see the day!"

"Shut up, Pete." Pete laughed and Myka rolled her eyes, speeding up so she reached the fourth floor before her partner. The suspect was standing in the doorway, clearly waiting for the two Detective's arrival. She gave Myka a once over as they waited in an awkward silent stand off for Pete to come upstairs. Once he was next to her, Myka coughed.

"Good afternoon, Ms Wells. I am Detective Myka Bering and this is my partner Detective Pete Lattimer. We would like to ask you some questions." HG Wells pushed herself off the doorframe and offered Myka and outstretched hand.

"HG Wells," she introduced herself. "I suppose you'll want to come in." She stepped out of the doorway to allow Myka to pass. Pete followed.

"Can I ask to what this visit pertains?" Myka didn't turn around as she inspected Ms Wells' shelves meticulously. They were tidy, well organised and, most importantly, clean.

"Does the name Maxwell Farrell mean anything to you?" Pete asked, turning in the middle of the room to watch their prime suspect, who was aimlessly standing in the middle of the room, watching the two detectives around her.

"Yes, it means quite a lot to me." HG didn't elaborate.

"Mr. Farrell was found dead this afternoon in suspicious circumstances." Pete watched her face attentively as he uttered the words. "We're here to ask you some questions about him."

"Max is dead?" HG unfurled: one hand gripped for her chest and the other landed on her stomach as she gasped in surprised, staring at Pete in horror. She blinked and then slowly walked over to the couch and sat down. Pete glanced at Myka, who immediately went to sit down next to HG, offering her comfort with her physical proximity.

"Ms Wells -"

"HG," she interrupted.

"HG," Myka started again, "we are so sorry we had to dump this news on you so suddenly." Myka's apology seemed feeble and guilt tore at her as she watched the other woman shudder through some breaths. She didn't deserve the harshness of the delivery, whether or not she was a suspect for the murder. Still. Myka reached out and absently touched HG's shoulder, trying to show some form of solidarity as she whispered the next question. "We found your hand print around his neck." HG looked up at Myka, surprise and confusion crossing across her face as she anchored Myka's hand on her arm with her own. Myka glanced down at the hand in semi-confusion.

"Handprint?" She asked.

"As if you choked him," Pete elaborated. Myka shot Pete a glare, but he didn't shift his steady stare from HG. She returned the gaze, confusion still evident before she gave a breathy, almost relieved laugh.

"Yeah, that's what Max was into," she explained on an exhale. "I stayed the night and he enjoys that type of breath play." Myka was impressed with HG's lack of embarrassment on the topic: she held eye contact with Myka, stressing her point, her features earnest. Helena grinned, adding quietly, as if only for Myka's benefit: "It was completely consensual." Myka was aware that her hand was still on the woman's arm and she carefully extracted herself, shifting away on the couch so she could ask some of her more serious questions.

"Did you know Mr Farell well?" HG shrugged.

"Well enough. We were casual acquaintances when we met in grad school and have grown closer in the last five years. He was always a lonely man, though."

"Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might want to do this to him?" HG shook her head. Myka looked up at Pete, who asked the most important question.

"When did you last see him?"

"I left him this morning around 7am and he was alive and well, if a bit bruised." Pete noted down the details and Myka nodded thoughtfully.

"As the victim's girlfriend, you're on our list of suspects," Pete explained. HG blinked at him in surprise and then laughed.

"I am not his girlfriend," she corrected Pete. She faltered, suddenly folding in on herself again as he hand went for the locket around her neck. "Was. I wasn't his girlfriend." The verbs took her by surprise and she breathed, slowly before finishing her statement. "I was just a friend."

"Fine, then as his friend with benefits, or whatever you want to call it, you are still up there," Pete corrected himself, rolling his eyes at the suspect. Myka interjected before Pete could cause more damage.

"Can anyone confirm your story about last night?" Myka asked.

"And can you also provide us with an alibi for this afternoon?" Pete added. Ms Wells looked at Myka steadily and then nodded silently. She got up from the couch slowly, her hand still playing with a necklace around her neck and walked to the bookshelf, picking up a card.

"I was interviewing this man from 2pm to 430pm today," she told Myka offering her the card. Myka accepted it and glanced at the name before sticking it into her pocket. James MacPhearson, Journalist. "As for last night: my apartment has CCTV downstairs so you can see me come and go. Max's apartment has a porter, so I doubt it has CCTV but I am sure the night porter can corroborate my story." She shrugged. Pete noted down some more things before nodding to Myka behind HG's back.

"We can see what we can do," Myka promised with a smile. Ms Wells tilted her head lightly and smiled back. She had nice eyes, Myka decided, worrying her lips absently.

„Do you have any leads right now?" The woman was cleared: Myka was certain of it. After quickly glancing at Pete she decided to go with her instinct and trust this woman as a cop and a private investigator.

"You were our only lead so far: is there any information that you have that may be useful to us?" Helena smirked.

"I am an asset that the Metropolitan Police has used before, so I would only be too happy to advise on this case." She said it almost slyly, giving Myka a side-long look.

"The police consults you?" Pete was surprised. Helena leaned back, elegant confidence exuding from her as she nodded smugly.

"I was their key external advisor on the Miclan case." Pete shook his head, the name meaning nothing to him as Myka did a double take.

"Morgan Miclan?" She asked, gaping. Pete shoot her a look of confusion. "He was a serial killer responsible for the deaths of about half a dozen people five or six years ago."

"It was a grueling case." HG smiled in satisfaction. "My work was considered invaluable." Myka just looked at the woman steadily. She was strange, Myka decided. Strange and confident in her own intelligence.

Pete coughed and Myka looked away. "Right, well, can you be available in the next few days?" He asked. Helena straightened up and smiled absently, her eyes still on Myka as she got up. "We're gonna have to check your alibi."

"I'll stay in the country," Helena informed Pete. He guaffed and looked down at his pad before glancing at Myka again, who just nodded. "I think we have everything," he concluded, closing the pad slowly.

"For now, ," Myka added with a slight nod of her head. "Thank you for your help and we're sorry for your loss."

"So am I, Detective Bering. Good bye." She smiled at Myka again, and for a second Myka felt special. As if this smile was a special one, one reserved for her and her alone.

Pete sighed dramatically as they stepped out of the building, looking up for one second and then shaking his head at Myka. "Vibes say there's something off about her, but also she's innocent of this murder." Myka looked up the building.

"We should check her story with Steve's findings when canvassing the neighbourhood."

"Right, so it's back to square one until Steve can confirm (or unconfirm) our good lady's alibi." He made a face as he swung himself into the front seat of their patrol car.

"Well we should go see whether the toxicology report offers anything." Myka offered, starting the car and carefully pulling out into the street.

"Oh, yay! Back to the morgue." Pete made a face. Myka laughed.

"You can wait outside again," she promised him.

"Why can't Clauds come upstairs?" He asked with a pout. Myka glanced at him and chuckled.

"I'll see what I can do," she promised her petulant partner, placating him with a benevolent grin.

It was almost six when they arrived back at the precinct. Claudia was waiting for them in the bullpen, sitting on Pete's desk and chatting to Steve, who was lounging in Myka's chair. Myka narrowed her eyes at him. "Scoot," she commanded, making him jump up with an apologetic smile.

"Hey you two. Did you find anything?" He asked, going to lean on Pete's desk next to Claudia. Myka sat down and shook her head, pursing her lips in frustration.

"No, we came up empty," she admitted. Claudia shot them an incredulous look.

"Your suspect hand her hands around our murder victim's neck! How does that equate to nothing!?"

"Erotic asphyxiation," Pete explained. Claudia raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?!" She demanded. Pete laughed.

"I know, cool phrase right? It means people who find chocking sexy."

"No you idiot, I knew the expression. I work in the morgue remember? No I was just surprised at the act. He looked like such a vanilla guy before I cut him up and then this too!"

"Looks can be deceiving?" Myka offered. Claudia laughed.

"If I had a penny," she scoffed. Steve rolled his eyes and shoved her playfully to stop the fun morgue story she was about to tell them before it could get started. "Alright!" Claudia put up her hands and, as if realising for the first time she was still holding it, held out a file for Myka.

"I came up here to deliver you my full morgue report including the toxicology."

"And?" Myka accepted the file but waited for Claudia's summary before she opened it up.

"Well, he used to be one messed up cookie. His hair shows that just over five years ago our good friend enjoyed the delicious thrill of heroine and a few other recreational drugs. He's been clean for a while though, so I think we should all applaud him for that." Pete whistled through his teeth.

"Impressive," he admitted. Myka nodded absently, feeling like there was a piece missing. She gestured at Claudia to continue.

"Well, see, here's the thing thought. He was drugged at around noon, but his addiction meant that his threshold for narcotics was higher than the average man's. Thus the drug did not have the desired effect: I hypothesis that the killer tried to poison him, and when that clearly failed used his weakened physical state to attack him."

"Do we have the murder weapon yet?"

"Techs are still testing all the cylindrical devices in his house, but I am not hopeful. The killer was too smart to leave that kind of evidence behind."

"Ugh, I hate smart murders," Pete muttered.

"Okay, Steve and Pete: can you too try and figure out potential murder weapons? I would start with inspecting photos from the crime scene. I'm going to try and create a time line of his day and see whether any of his friends or family can help me figure out who he was meeting for lunch."

"Interviewing a lot of people?" Pete pursed his lips. "Sounds fun." Myka stuck her tongue out at him and left the morgue report on her desk, walking over to the side of the bull pen to fetch a white board.

"Guess who get's to go home now?" Claudia twirled in excitement. "Me!"

"Go away!" Pete called, turning his back on her to log into his computer.

"Just leave!" Steve agreed. Claudia just laughed and danced towards the elevator, humming loudly.

"Detective Bering!" The shout from the office was menacing. Pete grinned at Myka, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Captain Nielson sounds grumpy," he whispered. Myka narrowed her eyes at him.

"He always sounds grumpy." Pete laughed.

"It's true," he admitted with a shrug. "Go placate him." Myka rolled her eyes and pushed herself away from her desk, rolling towards Artie's office. She got up slowly and knocked on the door cautiously.

"Come in," came the gruff reply. "Myka?"

"Yes Artie?"

"When exactly were you planning on telling me that you met H. G. Wells this afternoon?" The short man seemed to grow in size as he looked down at Myka from across his desk, bushy eyebrows adding ferocity to his gaze.

"In my report where I usually list all the suspects with whom I have interacted across the course of the investigation?" Myka replied, uncowed. She had done nothing wrong. "Why?"

"Any dealings with that woman, any dealings at all you make me privy to!"

"But Artie, I don't-"

"No buts! You tell me." Myka swallowed dryly.

"Okay, she muttered, cowed and confused.

"That woman is dangerous, Myka. Remember that."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Myka wasn't surprised to see HG sitting on the hood of the unmarked patrol car. She was casually sipping from a cardboard cup and tilting her head into the sunshine as if it was completely normal for her to be lounging on a Detective's vehicle at 830AM on a Tuesday. Myka stared at her for a second as she paused on the steps of the precinct, a smile of admiration pulling at her lips before she schooled her face.

"HG Wells," Myka greeted her, nodding respectfully but walking around the car anyway.

"Myka Bering," came the reply as HG's eyes fluttering open and she squinted in the sunlight. "It's nice seeing you here." Myka furrowed her brow.

"You're on my car." She gestured at the situation and HG chuckled, sliding towards Myka on the hood of the car.

"I thought I could help you today." HG explained as Myka paused in opening the driver's door. Myka looked up, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.

"Don't you have better things to do?" She asked.

"I don't."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say I cleared my schedule for this."

"Well you can't come." Myka crossed her arms defensively, squinting slightly in the bright sunshine as HG shifted so that her back was towards the sun.

"Why not?" The question was a method of calculating Myka, and Myka didn't like it. She narrowed her eyes at HG as she slid off the hood and walked around the edge of the car, so she was standing opposite Myka but still leaning against the car.

"Civilians can't just trail along on investigations whenever they feel like it!" HG's smile broadened.

"I'm not a civilian," she pointed out deftly. "I have advised with the department before." Myka narrowed her eyes at her opponent and tried to find a better excuse.

"I'm going to check your alibi," She supplied, grinning at her own success at an unbeatable explanation.

"No you're not," HG countered lazily.

"Yes, I am. I'm going to the place you had lunch yesterday." Myka glared at her but HG's smile didn't shift. "You can't be there. That might compromise the staff's statements." Myka nodded, satisfied with her own explanation.

"No you're not," HG repeated. Myka swallowed, perturbed by the woman's lazy confidence as she physically felt herself being caught out on her own lie. Suddenly she felt fourteen again, hands clammy, as she tried to come up with reasons for her lateness as Tracy watched her flail unhelpfully.

"I'm not?" She recross her arms and raised an eyebrow: a clear challenge. Despite her inner confidence crisis, her voice was even and her features schooled. HG was unaware she was evoking such strong panic in Myka.

"You did that last night." Myka gaped at Helena, who just grinned. "The waitress called me up after you left," she explained. Myka blinked, about to protest when Helena stopped her. "She didn't do it because I had told her to or anything, if you're going to accuse me of that. She simply wanted to ask whether or not she had slept with a fugitive." Myka opened and closed her mouth, trying to think of something to say. At a loss for words, she just stared.

"I don't understand," she supplied when it became clear that HG was enjoying this display.

"She asked me whether she had slept with someone who was a fugitive."

"and had she?" Myka asked, completely confused as to who they were talking about anymore.

"Well, I told her that since I am not a suspect in _this_ case, I didn't feel that was a valid description of me." Her cheeky little smile could only have been more cliche if it had been accompanied by a wink.

"This case? Are you a suspect in other cases?" Helena's smile was very much a "wouldn't you like to know" evasion as she stepped closer to Myka.

"Are you working under Artie Nielson?" Surprised by the abrupt change of subject, Myka nodded.

"Yes? Well, not _under_ him: he's my superior. Why do you ask?" Helena didn't reply immediately, her face impassive as she watched Myka.

"Artie Nielson doesn't like me," she supplied with a half smile.

"Yeah," Myka laughed awkwardly, looking down at the pavement and then back up at HG. "I noticed that. Why?"

"No reason," Helena murmured, her gaze still unwavering. Myka shifted before gesturing at her car, suddenly powerfully aware of her limbs as she shifted again. HG smiled and pushed herself off the car with her hip.

"Well, since I don't want to got you into any trouble," she sighed and gave Myka an absent pat on the arm as she walked past. Myka cocked her head.

"You're leaving?" She asked, incredulously. The other woman spun in her steps and walked backwards down the street, shielding her eyes against the morning sunlight.

"I'm sure I'll see you around!" she called. Myka watched her go, narrowing her eyes in suspicion before she decided she would investigate the journalist later: she had other work to do right now. She slipped in the car and drove off in the direction of where Pete was waiting to be picked up.

"You took your sweet ass time," Pete complained, tumbling into the car haphazardly, yet somehow keeping the cardboard tray with coffee and food oddly steady. Myka rolled her eyes and accepted her coffee with an ardour reserved only for the first coffee of the day.

"You could have walked the half a mile to the station," she reminded him. Pete laughed and bit into the sugar encrusted pastry as Myka took a sip of her coffee, smiled in appreciation and put the cup in the cupholder.

"Where would the fun be in that?" Pete asked through a full mouth as Myka slid back into the traffic. Myka chuckled dryly, worrying her lip unconsciously as she looked around for HG's car. It was ridiculous: completely ridiculous, Myka assured herself, but somehow HG's words, _I'll see you around _seemed laden with an implication that Myka did not like. Pete blinked at her and then shifted in his seat.

"Are you okay Myka?" He asked carefully. Myka glanced at him, brow furrowed.

"Yes I'm fine why would you say that?"

"You just seemed kind of," Pete searched for the word, "off?" he tried.

"Yeah no," Myka waved off the worry, "I'm _fine_!" Pete just gave Myka his look. Myka glanced at him again before turning her attention to the road and sighing. "Fine, okay. So I may have talked to HG this morning." Pete stopped chewing in surprise and lowered the pastry, sugar covering his lap as he raised his eyebrows at Myka.

"When?" He asked, glancing at the dashboard incredulously. "Its 8:54AM! Did she go to your bakery or something?" Myka shot her partner a quizzical look.

"Who goes to bakeries in the morning Pete?" She asked.

"Not the point," he chided.

"Well, no. She was sitting on my car when I got out of the precinct with Ms Tarr's address," Myka admitted reluctantly. Pete began eating again, chewing thoughtfully.

"How did she know which was your car?" He asked. "Or was she just sitting on a random one in the hopes that it was yours?"

"I don't know, Pete," Myka admitted. "I think she wants in on this case _really _badly and I don't understand why." Pete shrugged.

"Artie won't let her, _whatever_ the reasoning, so I'm not worried." Myka bit her cheek, but decided to let the issue be.

"We're here anyway," she said out loud, gesturing at the street they were driving down. Large impressive houses overshadowed them as Pete glanced at the street suspiciously.

"What number did you say it was?" He asked, the impeccably white walls making him feel uncomfortable.

"32," Myka identified, gesturing towards the house in front of which she was parking. "Let's go." Pete frowned uncertainly.

"You know how much I hate this part," he muttered. Myka smiled sadly.

"Everyone hates breaking a mother's heart," she agreed.

"It's not just that," Pete sighed. "I just can't stand ruining this woman's life like this. Right now she's probably wondering what she should have for breakfast, and in 10 minutes she'll just …" He shrugged. Myka frowned at Pete and clapped him on the back in friendly concern.

"It's okay," she promised him. He smiled weakly.

"For us it is," he agreed.

The grief-stricken mother was unhelpful to their case as a whole, simply identifying the victim's place of work and affirming the narcotics addiction.

"My son was troubled after he left law school, but he pulled his life together," she had explained, a sob wracking her fragile frame. "He got clean and took the bar and passed and now he works at a law firm."

"Which one?" Myka asked, watching the mother stiffly as Pete sat next to her on the couch and handed her tissues.

"MacPhearson LLP: its right in the centre of town."

"MacPhearson?" Myka asked, biting her pencil thoughtfully as she scribbled down the name again. "They do property and patent law and stuff like that, right?"

"Yes: my son worked in their real estate department." She began crying quietly and Pete patted her on the back uncertainly, glancing up at Myka as Myka looked around the living room thoughtfully.

"Did he enjoy his work?" Myka asked, glancing at all the family photos in which the victim was noticeably absent.

"He loved it," the mother murmured after blowing her nose politely. "He became a managing associate in two years: the partners said he was on a road to success." Myka nodded and wished she could do more with that knowledge.

She stepped out of her hot car just after noon in front of the skyscraper of which 4 floors housed the famous MacPhearson LLP. Myka had sent Pete to go touch base with Steve and then follow the other lead with which the mother had provided them, namely the ex-girlfriend who had left Farell mere days before his promotion.

"Have you had lunch yet, Detective Bering?" Myka spun around at break-neck speed, only mildly surprised to find herself face to face with HG again.

"HG, _what_ are you doing here?" Myka demanded, pressing a hand over her heart. HG smiled and held up a wrapped package that looked suspiciously like a sandwich.

"I brought you lunch," she said, by way of explanation. Myka shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms to hide her confusion.

"What do you mean?" She asked, voice lowered. HG smiled.

"There's a little courtyard behind this building where the employees sit and have lunch. Eat with me: let me talk to you. You can run off and waste your time interviewing Max's collegue's after." Myka narrowed her eyes.

"Talk?" She asked.

"Completely off the record," HG quickly established. "This has nothing to do with journalism and everything to do with the fact that your victim happens to have been one of my closest friends." HG grinned at Myka. "Besides, I have food!" She began walking slowly grinning confidently. Myka checked her watch: it _was_ lunch time and perhaps Helena did have important information?

"Fine, but I only have 15 minutes."

"I can work with that," HG assured her as they stepped into the courtyard which was flooded with the strong noon sunlight that seemed to beat on Myka's skin. Myka looked into the light and sat down on the bench next to HG.

"I bought you a falafel wrap," HG explained, putting the wrapped package in Myka's hand. "I assumed you were a vegetarian." Myka laughed and nodded, impressed.

"Not half bad," she admitted, unwrapping the wrap delicately. HG grinned.

"I tried," she admitted ruefully. HG watched Myka as Myka enjoyed the food before she began.

"I assume Max's mother was horrified by his passing," HG started. Myka narrowed her eyes. HG smiled sadly. "None of this is case-sensitive, Myka. I'm asking about it as a friend, not a cop."

"A friend to whom?" Myka asked. HG smirked.

"Right now? To Max." Myka smiled.

"Yes, she was shell shocked," Myka conceded. "Who wouldn't be?" HG smiled sadly again and leaned forward on the bench, her hair obscuring her face for a second. Myka watched her, curious. HG just looked up, pushing her hair back with a small smile.

"It's hard being a mother," she agreed. Myka furrowed her brow at the depth of sadness in the reply.

"Do you have any children, HG?" She asked, confused. The house had been spotless and no traces of any child in the area that Pete and Myka had seen. There had been no pictures of children on the shelves; no mementos of childhood. It would be incongruous for this professional journalist to tow around a child.

"Not right now," HG answered with a sad smile pulling at her lips. Myka watched her expectantly. "What?" HG asked, spreading her hands to demonstrate her innocence. "It's true!" Myka smiled and looked across the courtyard.

"Did Max really enjoy his work?" She asked after a lull in the conversation. HG pursed her lips.

"He liked it better after Lola left and it was the only thing of importance in his life. He loved her a lot, and her leaving him hit him hard. Probably because he understood it was completely deserved." Myka frowned.

"He worked too much?" She inquired. HG scoffed.

"He was a lawyer. He didn't work too much: he just never _stopped_ working." Myka nodded thoughtfully, dabbing her napkin at her lips. A lawyer brushed by Myka and she swallowed despite herself, dreading the task ahead of her. Self important people were hard to work with, especially those who saw themselves well versed in law; they did not often relish the opportunity to be interviewed by a homicide detective. She turned to HG with a sigh of defeat just as she finished her sandwich.

"Do you wanna come with me? Help a bit?" HG grinned, balling up the wrapper of her food and chucking it into the garbage can.

"I would _love_ to," she said, getting up and offering Myka a hand. Myka ignored it and stood up, brushing off the dust on her coat and rolling her eyes at her temporary partner. She seemed unperturbed by her rejection as they walked towards the base of the building.

"I really can't think of anything else to tell you, Detective Bering." The old partner sighed, leaning back his chair and staring out of the window, his face pale and long in grief. He wiped his face, his pale eyes watery, and sighed. "Max was a good man and a damn good lawyer. He didn't deserve to die like this."

"You knew about his addiction." HG phrased it as a statement, and the old man blinked in surprise before he nodded.

"Yes, I knew. Max told me after his first or so month of working here, and I helped him cover it up at work." Myka frowned. The man quickly continued. "In this business, Detective Bering, appearances are everything. If anyone would have know about Max's, well, _problem_, it would have cost a promising young lawyer his career and I didn't think he deserved that. We didn't do anything illegal to cover it up: we just made sure no one knew."

"No one?" HG asked, clearly a leading question.

"Only me and his secretary knew." The man confirmed. HG glanced at Myka with a grin, as if this discovery was somehow a success. Myka quickly looked away, focusing back on the plump man.

"Why his secretary?"

"He had to schedule the Narcotics Anonymous meetings in somehow." The man smiled weakly. "Mike handled the whole thing with wonderful digression." HG nodded thoughtfully and then glanced at Myka.

"Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want to do this to him?" The routine question almost always embarrassed Myka, but in the end she found that sometimes, _rarely_, it helped. This time, it didn't seem to lead to anything as the partner shrugged.

"He was a Real Estate Lawyer. No one makes enemies by hashing out financial contracts, especially not Max. He was good at his job, friendly to his clients and on great terms with the opposing counsel, _whatever_ the case. I genuinely can not think of a single person who would wish him harm." The man shook his head sadly and Myka's heart went out to him. He might not be the grieving mother she had left that morning, but a death, especially a sudden death like this, left people sad and aching, and society had little time for that.

They left the 32nd floor quickly (Myka disliked calm stern old men who reminded her of her father almost as much as she hated high buildings and self-important lawyers), but only after exchanging a few words with Mike the secretary. Mike the secretary, a quiet, nervous man, gave HG and Myka the victim's schedule. It showed a completely free lunch on the day of the murder, surrounded by appointments and tasks and meetings befitting a professional lawyers' schedule.

"He was adamant about keeping the lunch free," Mike admitted, "which is strange because when he has personal meetings, he usually enters them in the calendar as 'personal meetings'."

"Was this the first time this had happened?" HG asked before Myka could utter the question. The man glanced at HG: only Myka had shown her badge. He played with the ring on his finger nervously as he shook his head.

"No, I don't think he's ever done this before," he admitted again. Myka noted his nervousness with interest and wasn't surprised that when they were standing in the elevator, HG commented on it too.

"Our little secretary friend was nervous, wasn't he?" She commented with a smirk. Myka pursed her lips.

"I don't think it was because he was guilty of anything though," Myka said with a sigh. HG grinned, stepping towards Myka, he hands in her pocket of her coat.

"I think you made him nervous," HG agreed, grinning. Myka glanced down at HG's lips before flicking back to her eyes, shifting against the elevator wall as HG stepped into her personal space.

"I don't think that was me," Myka muttered on an exhale, her eyes burning into HG's to stop herself looking down again.

"I don't know," HG drawled as the elevator slowed down. The doors pinged and opened right as HG stepped back, throwing the phrase, "You have a similar effect on me," as she walked out. Myka blushed, quickly looking down and letting her hair fall forward, hiding her face before she followed HG out. Taking a deep Myka looked up to chastise HG for her comment.

Before she could, HG spun around. "Get down _right now_," she shouted as the elegant sound of bullet catalyzed the crystal melody of glass smashing: Myka felt something against her stomach and slammed into the ground, pain erupting up her side as people began screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

right so jsyk, i researched this by watching a Castle ep in which a police officer gets shot and I have also never been to an American hospital so i have ~no idea what one does when one checks out.

* * *

"I'm fine," Myka sighed. She twisted the old fashioned phone wire around her finger absently as her mother's voice rose another octave on the phone. "No, I am really fine," Myka assured her mother. She shot Pete the hundredth glare from her perch on the edge of the hospital bed as she continued to placate her hysterical mother.

"No, I wasn't shot. No, he was wrong. Yes, I know this is what Pete told you, but Pete was _wrong_." Another pointed glare in Pete's direction. "It was only some glass from the window. Well, yes there were shots _fired_, but none of them at me. Yes, yes I know." Myka sighed and frowned at the ceiling. "No mother, I don't need a vacation." She unwound her finger from the wire and watched it bunch, a thin white coil suspended in the air. "No, mother, the stiches don't mar my appearance for life. They're right above my right hip! I would not consider it a usual place for potential suitors to check. No, Mom I'm not talking about this anymore." Myka's voice was stern and final. "How's Dad?" She asked, exasperated. There was a moment of silence. Myka sighed and winced, holding her hip. Pete hovered around her as she listened to her mother, nodding and making murmuring sounds of agreement. "Okay, well then. I think I have to go now," Myka excused herself as her mother's complaining seemed to lessen. "Yes, the doctor is here," she lied. Pete glanced behind him, just in case. She smiled tightly. "Yes, I'll tell him you said 'hi'. Bye!" She put down the phone gently, making sure it was properly hung up, before she turned to narrow her eyes at Pete.

"Did you _really_ have to call my mother?" she demanded.

"I thought you were shot!" he defended himself. Myka narrowed her eyes at him.

"I wasn't!" she snapped, her own voice rising. Pete rolled his eyes.

"I can see that now," he agreed, gesturing at where she was sitting up.

"Why did you have to assume!?" Myka demanded, burying her face in her hands. Pete put his hands in the air in exasperation.

"All I got was the radio informing me about shots fired! Next thing I know, I can't reach you and some British woman picks up your phone because you're being loaded into an ambulance! Sorry if I assumed the worst, but I don't think!"

"Some British woman? It was HG."

"Yes, well I know that know. At the time I didn't think to assume you were driving around with one of our murder suspects."

"Why didn't you let HG explain?" Myka demanded in exasperation, burying her face in her hands.

"She's a suspect! In a homicide case! A murder suspect! Why on earth were you even with _her_?"

"What do you mean?" Myka asked defensively, crossing her arms across her chest before she winced again and uncrossed them, holding her hip in pain.

"Why were you with a journalist who has been actively bared from both duty and specifically this case was your new partner?" Pete clarified.

"She's an ex-cop and she's not my new partner," Myka corrected, a wave of pain making her double over slightly.

"Then where was I?" Pete demanded, pacing the room and oblivious to his partner's pain.

"Investigating another line of questioning?" Myka's brow furrowed. "Are you trying to imply I did something against the book?" Pete sighed and sat down on the bed next to Myka.

"Not at all," he corrected himself, leaning his forehead against Myka's shoulder. "I'm just saying that I was scared"

"You don't have to be scared, I'm right here Pete," Myka reminded him. Pete swallowed.

"I know, I know," he murmured. Myka patted his back awkwardly. Pete remained there. Myka shoved at his shoulder lightly.

"I, for one, would like to go home," Myka told Pete as he sat up. "I'm going to sign myself out and go to work?" Pete laughed.

"You know I won't let you do that," Pete disagreed. Myka rolled her eyes.

"We can discuss this in a second. Go tell the nurses while I get changed. And ring up Jinksy and Clauds to tell them that I'm fine."

"God!" Pete hit himself on the forehead. "Clauds! I forgot to tell her you were alright!" Pete pulled out his phone and jogged down the hallway to call up Claudia from the waiting area to explain to her that he knew Myka had been fine for the last hour, it was just, you know, he forgot to call.

Myka flicked open her phone and smiled: two texts waited for her, both from Helena. "They made me leave when Pete came: he's down as your emergency contact. I hope you're feeling better?" Myka checked the timestamp: she'd gotten this about two hours ago.

"After the excitement of that shooting, my house is so boring and pedestrian," the next text complained. Myka smirked and quickly wrote a reply.

"I'd take pedestrian over twelve stitches over my hip. My mother is convinced they're going to scare away any potential suitors." Helena's reply was almost immediate.

"Scare them away? I would say quite the opposite. Everyone loves a bit of heroism." Myka laughed quietly.

"Heroism? I was shot at! You're the hero who pushed me out of the way!"

"And yet I have no scars to show for it. My life is so hard."

"Who you texting?" Pete asked, skipping back into the room and throwing Myka's clothes at her. She dropped her phone to catch the clothes and shook her head at Pete.

"No one," she evaded. Pete frowned at her but Myka grinned.

"Close the door and turn around so I can change in peace. I want a status update from Artie on my shooting as soon as we're out here." Pete laughed and turned around to follow Myka's orders.

"Artie ordered bed rest for you!" He complained. Myka rolled her eyes.

"Like that has _ever_ stopped me. Anyway, this shooting means we're getting somewhere and I'm not going to wait 24 hours for this trail to run cold."

"If you're gonna go to the precinct, you _know_ that Artie's going to dress you down, don't you?" Myka grimaced, half in anxiety over the truth of Pete's statement and partly because pulling the t-shirt over her head pulled at her stitches. Pete glanced behind him and then looked back at the door when he realised Myka wasn't done yet. "I mean, Myka. You not only went down there without backup: you went down there with a criminal _suspect_ and let her have privileged information to the case."

"She's not a suspect," Myka sighed, pulling down her white t-shirt with a hiss of pain. Pete glanced back again.

"Technically, she still is," he corrected.

"Well, I have ruled her out and she was _helping_ me Pete. We can't all be everywhere at once and I needed you and Steve to chase down the girlfriend lead."

"Which was a dead end, by the way. Other than that she confirmed your little girlfriend's story that he liked it rough." Myka winced as she stepped into a trouser leg.

"What?" She demanded, distracted by the pain of the movement.

"The girlfriend said the victim enjoyed 'pain play', as she worded it, in the bedroom." Myka carefully buttoned up her trousers and pushed them as low on her hips as the cut would allow, so as little pressure as possible was exerted on her stitching, humming in acknowledgement to Pete's statement. Pete turned around and approached her carefully, resting his hands on her shoulders, his eyes lined in worry.

"We don't have to go in, Myka. Your body just suffered a lot. We can wait until tomorrow," He tried to temper her but Myka rolled her eyes.

"Call up Steve: I want him and Claudia to get me all the surveillance camera footage of the area we can get. You and I are combing through that data tonight and seeing if that brings us anything."

"Myka." Pete held her by the shoulders, but Myka shrugged off his touch brusquely and walked towards the door, subtle limp barely evident.

"Myka," Pete tried again. Myka paused. "Myka, I know you're scared but you _need_ to sleep. I'm happy to let you go in and face Artie, because I know you're anxious about that, but then you're going to leave and let me and Steve and Claudia do that CCTV stuff on our own. We know how to do it and we'll call you the second we have something."

"No, you won't," Myka sighed, exasperated. Pete chuckled.

"You're right. We'll wait until 7am and then we'll call you because, Myka, _you need to rest_." Myka stared at the top left corner of the hospital room. The tiling was uneven and the exact squares didn't quite fit in the area. You could see a bit of darkness between two panels. Myka swallowed.

She knew Pete was right. Her hip already hurt from the exertion of trying to put on a bra. Pete and Claudia and Steve could survive without her. Her berating from Artie, her paperwork and double checking Pete's work: all those things could wait. She sighed in defeat. "Fine," she muttered. "I'll go home. But I'll be there tomorrow morning."

"Probably before the Station even opens," Pete agreed, bounding to catch up with Myka as she left the room quickly and nudging her shoulder happily. Myka glanced at him and smiled. He looked tired.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She asked, ruffling his hair gently. Pete smiled weakly.

"I was worried about you, Mykes," he admitted as Myka stopped by the counter at the end of the corridor. She acknowledged him with a smile before turning to the nurse, who looked up and grinned impishly at Myka.

"Good to see you up and running, Detective Bering," she said to Myka, offering her a clipboard. Myka glanced over the chart and signed at the bottom with a flourish and handed it back with a smile.

"Thanks, Lenora! Good luck with that MSAT!" The nurse winked at Myka.

"Thank you, I'll need it." Myka laughed lightly, waving and then stepping past the elevator to the stairs. Pete grabbed her arm and dragged her to the elevator. Before she could begin complaining, Pete held up a hand.

"This is a special condition, Myka. For it, you can break the elevator rule." Myka just rolled her eyes and let herself be dragged into the elevator.

Pete was driving her home when Myka checked her texts. "What are you doing tonight?" her latest text from Helena read. Myka considered, for a second, making some crime solving plans with Helena. Helena probably had access to wide networks of information. Myka glanced at Pete. His face was set in worry and Myka realised that it would hurt him. She sighed.

"Sleeping," she replied before she put her phone away.

"Steve made you dinner," Pete started as he unlocked her apartment for her. Myka let him, knowing that it was more for his benefit than her own.

"Lasagna?" Myka guessed.

"Since that _is_ the only thing he can cook, yes." Pete put the ceramic dish on her counter and Myka smiled at the little smiley that Steve had drawn on the aluminum foil. She leaned against the counter and watched Pete shuffle awkwardly in her kitchen.

"I don't know what else to do," he admitted.

"There really isn't anything you can do," Myka sighed, brushing a hand over the immaculate counter. "I'm going to heat up that lasagna and take that and a hot cup of tea to bed and finish Trollope."

"Trollope?"

"Early 20th century British author."

"Oh." Pete shuffled and then suddenly launched himself at Myka, crushing her in a giant bear hug. "I'm so glad you're okay," he whispered into her hair before releasing her. Myka stared at him, amazed at this sudden outburst. He wiped his face and smiled tearfully. "I wouldn't be able to stand it if something happened to you." Myka just shifted uncomfortably.

"Its okay, Pete," She promised. "I'm fine. Now go to the station and make sure everything doesn't go to shit in my absence."

"'Go to shit'?" Pete repeated, usual smirk playing on his lips. "Wow, if Myka's swearing then it must really be serious." Myka chuckled.

"It is!" She chastised him, slapping his arm playfully. "If I don't get those reports then I am starting a vendetta against sleep and it and I shall no longer communicate."

"You communicate with sleep?" Myka shoved Pete. He laughed and joked towards the door.

"You know what I mean. Those pain medications are still prominent in my system, okay?" She leaned against the open door and smiled at him. "See you in the morning," she promised.

"Bright and early," he agreed and danced off. Myka watched his retreating figure until he jumped down the stairs, humming tunelessly to himself. She closed her door and looked around her small apartment, suddenly feeling a twinge of loss.

Her side hurt more than she would have admitted to Pete. The only conventional wisdom Myka had access to was the rule that one should always put ice on aches and pains. Myka's childhood injuries had never earned her attention or special treatment at her house, so this was the only information that Myka remembered as crucial. If it hurts, put some ice on it.

Myka decided she would ice her stitches while she made dinner, before slipping into bed with some hot tea and a book. It was already 7pm: after she had finished with the lasagna it would be past an acceptable time to go to bed, right?

Her phone beeped again. Myka glanced at it. It was probably important. Her hip twinged. This was not the night to be important.

Myka ignored the phone and walked over to the counter, took the aluminum foil off the lasagna and slipped it into the oven. She opened up the freezer and retrieved the much-used ice pack, hiking up her t-shirt and hissing as she cold came into contact with her bear skin. Before she could figure out how to tie the holder for the ice, designed for a leg injury, around her hip, there was a knock on her door.

Myka glanced at her door in confusion. Her doorbell downstairs had not announced any visitors and Pete had left more than five minutes ago. Dropping the ice pack on the counter and rearranging her shirt, ignoring the wet patch that was forming because of the ice, Myka jogged over to the door. She opened it quickly, fully expecting the building's superintendent to inform her of some important change in the building's policy. She was _not_ expecting Helena Wells.

But Helena Wells was smiling at her. Myka just stared at her. "How do you know where I live?" She demanded. Helena laughed.

"I'm a private investigator, darling. I would be _ashamed_ of myself if I couldn't find you." Helena glanced down at Myka's hip and immediately stepped forward when she saw the dark fabric of Myka's t-shirt was damp. "Myka one of your stitches ripped!" She gasped. Myka rolled her eyes.

"No they didn't," she sighed, stepping back and allowing Helena to come into her apartment, face lined with worry. Helena dumped the tote bag by Myka's door and made as if to touch Myka's shoulder before she thought better of it, her hand hovering an inch over the shoulder as she stared down at the wet patch.

"What do you mean?" Helena demanded. "You're bleeding!" Myka walked back to the kitchen.

"No, I was putting some ice on my stitches," Myka corrected, exasperated, as she picked up the ice again and, lifting up her t-shirt, hissed at the cold contact.

"I'm pretty sure you shouldn't do that," Helena disagreed, watching, concerned. Myka shot her an irritable glare.

"Really? And how many times have you had stitches on your midriff?" She snapped, stinging pain intensified by the ice. Helena smiled sadly.

"More than once," she corrected Myka, stepping forward. She gently took the ice out of Myka's hand. Myka gasped quietly, partly at the lack of cold and partly because of the sudden intimacy. Helena picked up the kitchen towel on the counter and carefully, tenderly dabbed at Myka's stitches. Myka didn't make a sound, but her eyes welled with pain at the continued pressure. She closed them and clenched her teeth.

"You need to keep your stitches dry and expose them to air. Ice is not a good idea," Helena murmured. Myka nodded, not trusting herself to speak or to open her eyes. The dabbing stopped and Helena's hand ghosted over the tender skin before she straightened up.

Myka's eyes flew open as Helena's cold hand cupped her face, and Helena carefully inspected the scrape on Myka's right cheek bone. The touch was strangely intimate, even though Helena was concentrated on the injuries presented by her patient.

"I'm fine," Myka muttered, pushing Helena off her. Helena didn't protest and let Myka have her space. Myka stared at the wall for a few seconds, back to Helena, as she tried to get her emotions in check. She turned around slowly. "Why are you here, anyway?" She asked, her voice still unsteady.

"You need someone to take care of you," Helena said simply. Myka gaped at her.

"What?" She demanded, offended. "I do _not_ need anyone to _take care of me_." She spat out the words, as if they were the most mortal insult she could ever be delivered. Helena raised an eyebrow and leaned against the counter.

"Myka, you were going to put ice on stitches. Would you rather I stopped you from accidentally worsening your condition, or that I leave you on your own to destroy your health?"

"I'm not_ worsening_ my condition," Myka snapped. Helena rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, I have some information that might interest you." Myka narrowed her eyes at the private investigator.

"What information?" She asked, suspicious.

"Your victim's sister and I had a chat."

"She lives in Chicago right now," Myka said automatically, every miniscule detail listed on her file immediately springing to mind. Helena grinned.

"You're good," she admitted, going back to the front door to retrieve the tote bag. "She's in town for our victim's funeral and she and I had a bit of a chat."

"An off record chat?" Myka guessed. Helena brushed the comment aside and handed Myka a file.

"Potentially, but I typed out the transcript for you anyway." Myka cracked open the file. Neat rows of black text: a discussion between Helena and Lila, the victim's sister. Myka couldn't help but smile slightly.

"Thank you for this," she said, holding up the file. Helena smirked.

"That isn't even the best of it, Myka."

"What's the best of it?" Myka asked dully.

"Our victim had a mortal enemy!" Helena nearly clapped in excitement. Myka grinned, suddenly relived. See, this case wasn't that convoluted. She'd get through this all. There would be answers.

There were _always_ answers.

* * *

NICE OMINOUS LAST SENTENCE THERE EH?  
(laughs manically)

(also jsyk this actually breaks my self-made rule that there should be smut around now but bear with me and read all my other smut fic if necessary most of it is on ao3 where you'll find me under the same name)


	4. Chapter 4

"Good morning, Myka!" Myka looked around, trying to locate Claudia. The entrance way was filled with uniforms queuing up for the precinct coffee (which was really _awful _Myka was mystified by their apparent obsession with it).She grinned as she caught sight of Claudia jumping up in the elevator and accidentally shoving the morgue attendant her as she waved at Myka before the doors closed. Myka chuckled and waved back between the closing doors.

"Hey Claudia!" She called, slightly embarrassed.

"Been gone long?" One of the rookies hanging around the lobby with his coffee cups and donuts asked Myka snarkily. She glared at the young man, her eyes narrowing as she breezed by him.

"Long enough," she snapped back, jabbing the elevator button, impatient to get away from him.

"Maternity leave?" The guy asked, smirking. His companion guaffed. Myka turned on her heel, very slowly, to fix him with a painful glare.

"Mr.," she pointedly looked at his badge, "Stanton," she smiled sweetly, "it was _so_ nice to meet you." His companion chuckled nervously next to him. Neither men were very attractive: Mr. Stanton, although tall and robust, had a square jaw and small eyes: his companion was worse for the wear, with a completely shaved head revealing two scars on his forehead that were oddly shaped like a cross. "You two, Mr. Lee."

"That's _Office_r Stanton to you, lady," the office puffed. Myka smiled sweetly.

"And _Detective_ Bering to you, good sirs." They paled. "Yes, I _am_ quite famous in the homicide division, I'm glad you noticed. And I have enough of a reputation to ensure that you two good fellows will be writing up traffic violations for quite a while."

Fucking _idiots_.

Myka decided to take the stairs instead. The small twinge of pain was worth the dramatic exit.

"Myka!" Pete, who'd been filling up his water bottle at the fountain, jogged over and fell into an easy step next to her as Myka walked out of the stairwell, breathing heavier than she would care to admit and still annoyed about the sexist idiots at the elevator. "Have you figured anything out yet?" Myka narrowed her eyes at Pete.

"Figure out what?" She asked in mock innocence.

"About the shooter?" Pete hinted. Myka bit her lip and wondered whether or not Pete knew about HG's assistance. That was sure to land her in trouble with Artie…

"How did you know?" She demanded. Pete shrugged.

"It's you," he said by way of explanation, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchenette was he watched Myka prepare herself some coffee. Myka smiled indulgently at Pete.

"Fair," she admitted. "Want some coffee?"

"No, I'm fine." Pete held up his water bottle. "Now, what do you have?"

"His sister was in town last night." Pete titled his head.

"What does that mean?" He asked carefully. Myka grinned, adding a small splash of milk to the coffee.

"It means we're getting answers."

"Answers?" Pete watched Myka stir her coffee intently.

"Sisters are veritable _founts_ of information, Pete," Myka explained, licking the spoon and dropping it in the sink.

"But we already questioned a family member!" Pete exclaimed, surprised.

"We questioned a _mother_," Myka explained. "That is something very different."

"How so?" Myka fixed with a look expressing her sentiment of "isn't it obvious".

"Siblings tell each other more." Pete blinked in surprise.

"Really?" Myka nodded over the rim of her cup of coffee. Pete pouted. "You're making me feel guilty! I never tell my sister anything!" Myka shrugged.

"Yes, but that's the age difference," she pointed out, walking out the kitchenette slowly. Pete followed.

"Do you tell Tracy everything?" he demanded. Myka glanced over her shoulder and shrugged again.

"Not everything, but if I get murdered, Tracy will be able to hand you a list of suspects." Pete fell into step beside her.

"More so than your mother?" He asked, incredulous. Myka made a face.

"I only tell my mother the nice things about my life," she admitted.

"Really?" Pete was completely non-plussed.

"Yeah! Otherwise she'd worry!" And berate me for my mistakes, Myka added internally. Pete frowned.

"God, my sister must be weird. That's the only explanation!" Myka laughed.

"Or you're weird?" She suggested. Pete made a face at Myka.

"Why do you _always_ take her side?" He demanded. She chuckled, shaking her head and sitting down at her desk in the middle of the bullpen elegantly.

"Older sisters have to stick together, Pete," she explained, re-arranging the papers on her desk neatly. Pete leaned against her desk and crossed his arms.

"_Clearly_." He shook his head in disapproval. "Does friendship mean nothing to you!?"

"Sometimes it means free dinner?" Pete rolled his eyes. Myka's gaze flicked to Artie's office the time for the third time in their conversation. Pete glanced behind him and tilted his head at Artie's office: the door was closed: a strange occasion. Pete narrowed his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" He asked, suspiciously following her gaze. "Are you stalling?" Myka stared at Pete for a second, surprise making her stutter.

"Em, No! I mean, no!" Pete titled his head, smirking.

"Then why aren't you interviewing the sister yet?" He asked, grinning.

"Because Ms. Farrell has already been interviewed –" Artie's door opened and Myka sat up, quickly finishing her sentence as HG's triumphant grin followed a grumpy Artie into the bullpen. Serene and confident as always, Commander Frederick brought up the rear. "on behalf of the police department."

Artie slammed a file down on Myka's desk and Pete jumped up in shock. "Hello Artie," he mumbled, cowed.

"Lieutenant _Nielson_," he corrected icily, glaring at Myka. "Where are Steve and Claudia?"

"Claudia's downstairs," Steve answered, appearing at Artie's elbow. Artie glared at Steve, as if the Medical Examiner's absence was his responsibility.

"Catch her up on this then." Artie snapped.

"On what?" Pete asked, confused.

"Thanks to the request made by _Detective Bering_," Artie spat out the words like venom, "_Ex - police officer _Wells will be joining your team for a _limited_ time to help in a _highly diminished_ capacity on the case."

Myka couldn't help the smile spreading on her face, mirroring HG's triumphant smirk. Pete just looked puzzled. "But Artie –" he began. Artie cut him off with a wave of his hand and an awkward shuffle.

"I won't hear any more of this. Go, do your jobs." He stalked off, though his height and roundness made this a more awkward affair than the older man would have liked. Commander Frederick looked at the members of the team mildly, fixing them all with intense eye-contact.

"You're going to solve this matter quickly: it's already gaining too much media attention for my taste." Pete nodded ardently.

"Yes, yes we will, ma'am, I mean Commander Frederick." She smiled and nodded.

"Good." She disappeared.

As all superiors stepped out of ear shot, Pete turned on Myka, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Care to catch me up?" He asked. Steve cast a glance between both of them and then looking back at HG. Myka bit her lip and smiled.

"Basically, HG interviewed our suspect's sister last night, which is why we don't need to go."

"Can we use her interview in court?" Steve asked, addressing HG directly.

"It's sound evidence and everything she told me was on the record, so yes, it is admissible evidence." Pete glanced at HG as she spoke, but looked away again, as if uncomfortable, as he nodded sagely.

"Right, so what do we do know?" Pete asked.

"Our victim's sister told us one very important fact we had previously not known," HG explained, glancing at Myka. Myka smiled.

"What?" Pete asked, glancing between the two women. They began walking towards the elevator, pushing Pete in that direction too. Steve trotted along behind them.

"The victim was involved in drugs before," HG explained. Pete sighed noisily.

"We knew that!" Pete interrupted.

"Drug _gangs_, Pete." Myka correct. Pete's brow furrowed.

"Wait what? The guy was a lawyer!"

"Yes but _before_ he started practicing law, he was busy _breaking _the law." HG grinned. Pete rolled his eyes.

"Did he have any clear cut enemies? Anything like that?" Steve asked.

"No, but he did have an old friend," HG replied with a smirk.

"Oh yes, old friends are _usually_ my archnemesises." Pete muttered sarcastically.

"Is that even a word?" Steve asked, tilting his head.

"No, it's not. The plural of nemesis, Mr Lattimer, is nemeses," HG corrected, pressing the button to call the elevator.

"Whatever," Pete sighed. "So why are we going downstairs?!" He asked in surprise, as if only noticing now that his was where their path was leading them.

"Have you been listening?!" Myka demanded in animated frustration. Pete just stared at her in confusion.

"You haven't said _anything_ about downstairs!" He protested. HG sighed in annoyance and explained quickly.

"Old friend was part of the victim's gang culture, but after an unfortunate incident the sister had no information about, he was put in witness protection. Why was someone in witness protection contacting someone outside of witness protection?"

"There are only two good reasons for that," Myka answered HG's question by holding up her fingers at ticking each item off. "Either he was in danger, or he was putting our victim in danger."

"But why are _we_ going to the morgue?! Claudia won't be able to help us with this!" Pete demanded, frustrated.

'What else is downstairs?" Myka snapped.

"The parking garage?" He offered, glancing at Steve for help. Steve shrugged too.

"The fucking records room Pete. We're going to find the case which put Mr. Farrell's old friend into the witness protection program."

"Oh." Pete paused. "Oh wow, that's a really good idea." He paused again. "A _really_ good idea." Myka rolled her eyes.

"Thanks," she snapped, rolling her eyes and glancing over at HG, who seemed to be wearing a very self-indulgent smile as she watched Myka. Myka looked away, fighting the blush creeping up her neck.

The one flaw in HG's plan was that, without a post-witness protection program name or any frame of reference of the crime (it had happened before 2007, so before the archives had be digitalised and could be searched with a simple key word or name), it was slow work. All drug related crimes committed between 2003 and 2005 were collected in along six different shelves. HG and Myka took the first set, Pete and Steve the second.

It was slow work.

And painful work, for Myka. Every time she had to retrieve one of the boxes from any of the top shelf, it pulled at her stitches. She bared her teeth and continued reaching, trying to ignore the pain as it increased through the morning. At _exactly_ noon, Pete's head appeared around the corner.

"Steve and I are going to get lunch," he said with a grin. "Shall I fetch you your usual?"

"If you could," Myka said, trying to keep the strained edge out of her smile.

"On it," Pete nodded. "What can I get you, Wells?"

"It's HG, and I don't know, I suppose I'll have what Myka's having. What are you having?" HG tilted her head at Myka.

"Salad," Myka muttered, bending down under the pretense of rearranging one of the files on the floor, but actually using the opportunity to double over as another wave of fresh pain washed over her. She had some pain killers in her desk drawer: she would make up some excuse in a second to get them.

"Right, two salads, two _actual_ meals," Pete joked, disappearing down the hallway, Steve in tow, who was reminding Pete loudly to go check on Claudia. Myka concentrated on the linoleum floor and tried breathing carefully and slowly, pushing the pain out of her head as she counted backwards in French from 312.

There was a shift of fabric and Myka's eyes fluttered open. HG was crouching in front of her, four advil in her palm. "Take this," she advised, nudging a bottle of water towards Myka. Myka breathed out breathily.

"You're only meant to take two," she said, staring at HG's palm. HG smirked.

"And you're also meant to have several days off after a shooting. Take them, Myka. If you overdose, I'll save you."

"So valiant." Myka took the pills and swallowed them down dry. HG grinned.

"I try," she agreed, sitting down next to Myka and leaning against the shelf, offering her the water again. Myka shook her head.

HG looked up the shelf and sighed. Myka followed her gaze and frowned. They'd been working for at least three hours, and yet they had managed to comb through barely a tenth of the long shelf.

"I feel like there has to be a quicker way of doing this," Myka murmured. HG smiled sadly.

"Sadly, there isn't. I racked my brain for possibilities. Unless we can find a Vice Detective who knows his cases, we're doomed to doing this." Myka narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

"I used to date a guy who worked in Vice, you know…" she bit her lip and considered. "His old CO owes me a favor: we could go ask him." HG grinned.

"It's worth a try," she agreed. Myka made as if to try and get up, but HG grabbed her hand, holding her down.

"What?" Myka demanded.

"Wait until after lunch," HG cautioned. Myka frowned, confused.

"Why?" she asked.

"Myka, you're hurt. You need to take everything a bit slower than usual." Myka sighed and sat down again heavily, crossing her arms.

"Seriously?!" She demanded, huffing. HG chuckled.

"Yes, Myka. Seriously." Myka tilted her head and smiled at HG: a light, playful smile that made HG's chest feel oddly constricted.

"Thank you, HG." Myka murmured quietly. As if anyone else would be in the records room around lunch time, listening to them.

"Helena," Helena corrected. "You can call me Helena." Myka smiled shyly.

"Helena." She tilted her head. "I way prefer that."

Myka had really beautiful eyes. Why hadn't Helena noticed that before? Her eyes were wonderful: equal parts moss green and a deeper, pine green with small gold flecks. Myka looked down, embarrassed by Helena's scrutiny, letting her hair fall forward to obscure her face. She fiddled with her fingers absently, twisting the edge of a blank piece of paper meticulously. Helena watched her.

The bing of the elevator startled them: Myka instinctively scrambled up, grabbing one of the files. Helena followed suit, surprised by the speed of Myka's ascent. Myka poked her head around the corner as the elevator doors slid open and huffed.

"Oh, I thought it was Pete, but it's actually a bunch of uniforms that were trying to get to the morgue," she said, laughing breathlessly. Helena chuckled. Myka sighed and leaned against the shelf, a relieved grin crossing across her face. "I don't want Pete to see me slacking."

"I don't know whether I would call that slacking," Helena admitted. "You _were_ in pain."

"Or in pain," Myka added. "He doesn't deal with reminders of other people's fragility well." Helena laughed.

"You seem to worry about everyone except yourself, Myka," Helena chastised. Myka shrugged.

"It's easier that way," she admitted, crossing her arms and smiling sadly.

Helena didn't know what drove her to it: perhaps it was Myka's frank shrug; perhaps it was her little self-deprecating admission; perhaps it was just that right now, leaning against the shelves, hair halo-ing her face with her sad smile, Helena had never liked a person more. She stepped forward, carefully invading Myka's personal space. She laid a careful hand on Myka's hip, below her stitches, before cupping the other around Myka's neck. Helena watched Myka intently. Myka watched Helena, small, surprised smile tugging at her lips. She uncrossed her arms, and Helena, seeing that as an invitation, lightly kissed Myka.

Helena pulled back, pausing for a second, titling her head at Myka. Myka grinned and slipped a hand into Helena's hair, pulling her closer again so she could kiss her properly. Helena grinned against Myka's lip, stepping closer to Myka and letting her soft lips against Helena's obliterate everything else.

* * *

I KNOW THIS ENDS AT A WEIRD PLACE I'm really sorry. Comments are, as always, appreciated.


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